The Payback
by berseker25
Summary: Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former... acquaintance with a score to settle. BRAZIL/ARGENTINA PirateAU
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR NOTE: A long time ago, Zulenha (you can find her on tumblr and livejournal) made me a fanart of Brazil and Argentina in a pirate AU. I decided to write about it and, after some srs brainstorming with Sakuratsukikage (also on tumblr and LJ), this is what I came up with.**

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**Disclaimer: This is an AU, set in 1926. The characters belong to Latin Hetalia (also on LJ…), and what I did here doesn't represent in any way, shape or form, the actual countries of Brazil and Argentina, or the state of their diplomatic relationships. Unless the world got a lot weirder since the last time I checked ^_^**

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They twisted his arms behind his back.

Not too hard. They didn't seem to be trying to break it – just make sure he wouldn't move. And they didn't make him run, either, didn't drag him down the deck, didn't do anything that would actually hurt him.

Martin Hernandez wasn't fooled. He knew they had something in store, and maybe making him wonder was part of their plan. Something like that. But he kept his head held high. That was the easy part, straight back, haughty eyes, everything he had been practicing since he was a child, so much that now it came naturally. It wasn't much, not as these people held his arms without malice but without giving him any leeway either, and he could sense the silent threat, the expectation, mixing up with that apparent calm.

They pushed him against the mast. They held his arms around it. They tied his wrists, and that was the only part that hurt, and even then it was nothing he couldn't take, not nearly tight enough to cut off the circulation. They didn't talk much, just a few Portuguese words here and there, and when they finished they took one step back and looked at him. One of them tugged at the ropes, checking the knots.

And then they left him alone. And that was it.

Martín took a deep breath, as silently as he could, then rested his head against the mast, breathing, trying to think. Or to stop thinking.

He noticed, for the first time, that he was shaking. Just a little. He was sure they wouldn't have noticed – couldn't have, could they? He was sure they hadn't. The sounds of the battle were still ringing on his ears. The gunshots and cannon fire and the screaming and the smoke that seemed to have a sound of his own, filling his head, making his blood run faster, and all the sudden choices, the decisions, and at least he had that. Whatever happened now, as least he knew he had made the right choice, he had done what he always said he would do faced with a battle he would lose. And it had worked, he had bought them time, they had gotten away, so. He had all the rights to be proud of himself.

And pride wasn't much, but it would be everything here, so he let that thought sink in, tried to draw strength from it.

He sighed again. It was just a bit too loud, but no one was paying attention, no one was even looking at him. All around him normal life carried on, people running from side to side checking the damage, and that was something he could be proud of too, at least he had made an impact. And they were planning something, he knew that, he could tell, but they would make him wait.

His arms were starting to hurt.

It was getting warmer, too. It wasn't even noon yet, but the sun was high up and he could tell that it would be a problem later, if they kept him here, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. That was the trick, so he wouldn't panic. Yes.

Deep breaths.

He wished he could move. He closed his fingers, but it didn't help much, and it took some effort, too. His hands felt a bit cold, now. So the ropes were tighter than he had though.

Nice. And as for moving, the only thing he could do was slide down a little, and he didn't want that. Not in front of them. He could take this standing.

Deep, deep breaths.

It just happened that Martín hated to be restrained. He didn't know if anyone actually liked it, of course, probably not, and not like _this_, but he truly, truly _hated_ it. And they would finish tending to the ship, eventually, and then they would remember this was his fault and then what?

Don't think about it, he told himself. What would happen would happen, so no point in worrying about it.

One of them came to him. It was a tall, older man with a face that looked like old leather, and he didn't look too friendly. Of course. Martín tried to look blank, not afraid but not challenging either, just- nothing. He could take it. He _could_.

The man said something in Portuguese. Martín was biting his lip now, and he forced himself to stop. He had been trying to train himself out of it for the better part of his life now, and this was one of the worst possible moments to find out it hadn't worked. Why was this man so close? He didn't have to. Maybe now-

The only word Martín got out of it was _captain_, and then the man went away, back to his business, and Martín didn't let out his breath because that would be too obvious, but now he was getting angry. That man had done that on purpose, to make him nervous, hadn't he? Had to. And why give him news or advice or whatever the fuck that was in a language he couldn't understand? What was wrong with these people?

And what about the Captain? Martín could wait. He almost told them that, he could wait the whole day, no need to hurry, he wasn't going anywhere and they could-

Then he saw him.

Then his thoughts stopped.

And the feeling of dread was like- like an empty space at the bottom of the stomach, he didn't know, like coming back home to find out the war had started, like watching the blockade from Buenos Aires and looking at everything he knew and loved not knowing if the Imperial Navy would be breaking in by nightfall and like every bad new he had ever received and so he just stared, and at some distant part of his mind he knew he had to face him standing, he had to look like he always had, strong, and proud and-

Luciano. Luciano da Silva, actually, if he hadn't bought the title everyone said he would, and he couldn't have or he wouldn't be here, he would be at the Navy, he wouldn't be a pirate, he wouldn't-

Luciano looked calm. And focused. And many other things Martín could suddenly tell without even trying, he looked worried and frustrated, pointing at the sails and asking questions and giving orders and everyone was looking at him and listening and he had never looked so, so sure of himself before, so commanding, and for a second there they were back in Paris and Martín was fighting a smile and Luciano was mangling every French word that came out of his mouth, and no one cared because he looked so charming and he was obviously trying so hard and now-

Luciano looked up at him.

Martín stared. The grip of the ropes brought him back and reality came crashing down and oh God why this why him why-

Luciano smiled. It was still the same smile, but his eyes were guarded:

"I'm sure you can wait another minute," he said, loud, and everyone laughed, and the laughter stung and Martín swallowed hard and tried not to show it.

"Take your time," he said.

I'm not going anywhere, he thought, but his voice faltered and he couldn't say it. Why in the _world_ did it have to be _him_?

Then again, he should have seen it coming. Somehow. It was just his luck. It was-

Right, it didn't matter. So, they knew each other, that was all. And it was nice of Luciano to take his sweet time to come over, even if he probably meant it as a way to make him sweat, because that gave Martín the time to get a hold of himself. Somehow. Luciano seemed to be completed distracted now, talking with the tall man from before, and now Martín wished he had bothered to learn Portuguese to understand what they were saying. Luciano had tried to teach him, once, and oh the irony, and now he wished-

He wished he could forget that. He thought he _had_.

He tried to follow Luciano with his eyes, but the bastard was walking around, and then he was straight against the sun, and Martín had to look away. That was unsettling. Not knowing where he was. And what he would do. And what in the name of all hells he was doing here, and-

"Now, I don't have much time," Luciano said.

Martín raised his head sharply, trying to look at him, but Luciano was right behind him, and Martín felt his hands on his arms, the light tug on the ropes. More Portuguese, and then more laughter, and he thought he was complimenting them on the knots, but he couldn't be sure. He remembered that, this... changing the subject in the middle of a sentence, talking to someone else, talking to ten people at the same time. He was always doing that, back then. Martín rested his head against the mast.

He sighed loudly.

"You didn't change at all."

"Really," Luciano said. He held his arms, then, and Martín hoped his light gasp had gone unnoticed, and braced himself, but Luciano didn't pull or squeezed or anything, he just touched his forearms, fingers lightly pressing his muscles, and then let his hands slide down his arms until he could touch his wrists, and then he added, "Does it hurt?"

He was crazy. That, or he was trying to drive him crazy.

"No, I'm fine," Martín said.

"Really?"

"Yes, Luciano, I'm fine, now can you-"

"Heeey, you remember my name. That's so nice of you."

Martín stopped.

He wasn't sure what to make of that. Luciano finally – finally!- came round and stood in front of him, and smiled, as if Martín remembering him was really a sweet unexpected surprise and Martín tried to guess what game he thought he was playing, because-

"So," Luciano said, "A pirate, huh? Who knew."

Martin didn't answer. Even if he really wanted to, because honestly, look who's talking, but Luciano had that special way of saying things that made Martín want to shake him, and he was doing it on purpose, and Martín wasn't going to fall for this, wasn't going to-

"May I ask why? You never cared much for politics, and you were always too coward to fight for yourself, so why are you-"

"Coward? Are you calling me a-"

"A coward, yes. But it doesn't matter, I don't really care. I just asked to be polite. You really think I didn't change?"

It was- strange, and at the same time so familiar, the way his voice could change and one word would sound honest, and almost eager, and the other would sound harsh and the way his smile was both fixed and natural at the same time and had it always been like that?

"You didn't," Martín said. He tried to sound relaxed. "But I admit that I'm surprised. You didn't care for politics either, and I never expected you to be honest, but this?"

Luciano laughed, then. Martín knew it was real, he remembered that. Luciano could force a smile but he couldn't force laughter. He just laughed at the wrong times, and sometimes it had that glint of steel underneath the mirth, but it was never fake. Martín watched as he said something in Portuguese that made his crew laugh too.

He didn't care about them, or what they thought of him, or anything this bunch of barely trained monkeys did, but he could still feel his cheeks burning.

Luciano was shaking his head, still smiling:

"Good to know you didn't change, either."

He patted his cheek lightly, and smiled wider when Martin tried to avoid his touch.

"Now, like I said, I have work to do. Someone was attacking us, you know, so we have some things to fix so we can get the hell out of here. We'll talk more later. Catch up. You know."

"You- you'll leave me here? Like this?"

"That's the plan, yes. This way you won't get in our way, and we can all look at something pretty as we work. You'd like that, don't you?"

He wasn't even looking at him. He was running his fingers through his hair, getting it out of his forehead, and then suddenly Martin was very aware of the heat, and the little rivulets of sweat running down his back, and he couldn't even take off his coat or the cravat and it wasn't even noon yet, and-

"You can't do that."

"Really? Who will stop me?"

"You-"

He could take this. He could handle it. He'd just have to- focus, and he would- he wasn't going to-

"You're a bastard, Luciano."

"Am I?"

Martin tried to breathe. Deep. Don't panic. He hated being restrained. He didn't-

_Don't_go there. He breathed again.

"You can't do that to me. You can't- that's not-"

He stopped. Luciano waited, looking amused.

"I'll- I'll make you pay for this, Luciano, you can't-"

"Really? Should I just kill you? I can do that too. Later. When I get bored."

Martín could recognize that one too, the subtle harshness underlying every word, he had seen this too, back when Luciano could rage all he wanted that it would still be as harmless as a kitten, back then, but right now it wasn't important, he couldn't bring himself to care:

"You can leave me somewhere, I'll find a way to- any shore will do, I can-"

"Come on, Martín, shut up. And here I thought it would take at least ten minutes to get you whining."

"I know why you're doing this, I- do they know? Do they know what's this all about? Because we both do and-"

"Martin, shut up."

At least he dropped the smile. Martin pulled at the ropes, and they held and he had nothing else but pride to hold on to, to get him through this and Luciano was looking at him like that, little drops of sweat glistening on his skin and Martin wanted to move, he didn't even need a shade, just move, just something, anything, and Luciano couldn't do this and-

"Or what, you'll kill me? Do they know you don't give a fuck about the war or anything and this is just because I didn't fuck you like you wanted and that's why-"

The slap took him completely by surprise.

It threw his head against the mast and the hot white burning pain exploded on his right cheek and down his neck and it made little lights flash before him and then Luciano held his chin and forced his head back and then he said:

"Don't say that again or I'll break your neck. As for fucking, Martín, tell you what, if you mind the heat so much, I'll cut off your clothes and leave you naked here and then we'll see how much they care about it? What do you say?"

Martin didn't even blink. He believed that. He wasn't sure he hadn't broken anything, because it _hurt_, and it was still hurting and he could take this he was sure he could take it this was Luciano for God's sake-

"You wouldn't," he whispered. Luciano held him just a little tighter, and Martin tried to fight back a moan. He wouldn't. He just _wouldn't._

Then Luciano relented:

"Well, don't try me," and then he let go.

He said something to his men, and Martin had never wished so hard he could understand Portuguese, but he wouldn't, he was sure of it, this was still Luciano, he would never, he-

He didn't know where to look now, if he should see where Luciano was going or if he should keep his eyes on his men or what and it was like being in the middle of a battle without a weapon. One of them came to him – not the one from before, this one was younger and had dark tanned skin and a crooked smile and he looked at him like he would look at a piece of meat – and patted his cheek. Martin didn't say anything – his throat was completely dry, and he would scream, he knew it, but he couldn't, he still had his pride, so he turned his head away and then waited for another slap or- anything and-

The man laughed, a loud, merry boisterous mocking sound, that was – almost- just as bad as- no, maybe not, but-

Martín glared at him. He could feel his face reddening with shame, as they went back to their business and he became invisible again.

But not completely. They looked at him every now and then and sometimes they touched him. Light, playful touches meant to make him squirm, patting and petting and pinching. Martín tried to glare and tell them off but his voice trembled and they just laughed and mimicked his accent, and he was sure some of them could understand him because, well, they _should_, but if they did they were hiding it well. And Martín tried to tell them to stop laughing because there was nothing to laugh about, but the way they mimicked his voice was so petty and insulting and so infuriating that he stopped talking, and just glared at him whenever they touched him.

They weren't- Luciano wasn't going to let them. They were just- toying with him. It was obvious. They found him entertaining. They would get tired of it, eventually, he hoped. No, he knew it. So he tried to stay silent, to make his face as blank as he possibly could, and ignore all the hands feeling him up, tried to think of something else.

It was harder than he had thought. After a few minutes, the only thing he could think about was the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

_-__It was harder than he had thought. After a few minutes, the only thing he could think about was the sun-_

And the fact that they weren't moving.

He could take either one of them, but not both. Everything seemed to shine, the sun, the sky above them and what he could see of the water and even the ship, as if everything had a light of its own, even the air. He tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't keep them closed, because something in him fretted at not seeing if they were near him or not, and the light wasn't the problem, the problem was that it was getting really fucking _hot_.

And they weren't moving.

It was hot and he still had his coat, and he couldn't take it off, couldn't walk around to feel the breeze, couldn't even raise his hand to clean off the sweat of his brown, so he went back at trying to take very deep breaths because it was all piling up, the sweat was running down his back and that damn coat was so hot and _why_ weren't they moving?

They were doing this on purpose. Luciano was a fucking bastard, that's what he was, and-

"Enjoying yourself?"

Martín blinked. He hadn't seen him coming.

"Why aren't we moving?"

Luciano didn't answer. And he didn't pressed for an answer either, he went to his men and started to discuss something with them, and Martín knew why they were still here, of course, but _he_ would have done this faster and Luciano was trying something, he knew it, and-

"Almost done," Luciano said cheerfully, turning back to him. "Now, do you have a few minutes? I need to talk to you."

Martín blinked again. He almost asked him to repeat the question. Just. What.

"No, I don't think I do," he said, just because if Luciano wanted to be stupid, well, he wouldn't- he wouldn't try to make him stop, that's what.

"I'm sorry I hit you."

He wasn't expecting that. His cheek was still burning from it and, more than that, the humiliation, and the – not fear, but, well, _alarm_, and he could bet there would be a mark, and he really wasn't expecting that.

Seeing he wasn't going to answer, Luciano shrugged. Now he looked embarrassed:

"I still think you had it coming, but if I do that every time you deserve I will end up breaking your neck, that part was true, by the way, so you should feel happy I didn't. And it would hurt my hand. And you wouldn't learn anything. Because you're, well, you. Also, I should have better self-control. So I'm sorry."

Martín nodded. He could recognize a real apology when he saw one, and this surely _wasn't_. So he just kept glaring.

Luciano waited a few more seconds, and smiled.

He was always smiling. Martín remembered that. Or looked like he was. It was something about the curve of his lips, the way his eyes always seemed light, and- he had wondered, back then, how Luciano would act on a different setting, without all the refinement and sophistication that was Paris to them, and turned out that he was exactly the same thing.

Well.

Back then he didn't tie people under the burning sun. Martín tried to focus. Maybe he was going crazy.

Luciano was very close, now.

"You're not talking to me anymore?"

Martín didn't answer. Luciano sighed.

Then he held his chin. Martín tried to resist him, but Luciano held it tighter, turning his face to see his cheek, and Martín had to let him. Had to be still and wait and endure, even if being held like this hurt his dignity, as Luciano should know, by the way, and he probably did, so Martín said:

"Happy? Can you let me go now?"

Luciano just raised his chin. Now Martín had the full glare of the sun right on his face, and he was forced to close his eyes.

"Look," he said, softly, "It's like your whole face is shining."

"Luciano-"

"It's because you're all golden, your hair and the eyebrows and your eyelashes," he raised his face a little higher. That was uncomfortable, because of the mast pressing against his skull and because even with his eyes closed he could tell exactly where the sun was, and the brightness was making his head hurt, and then Luciano caressed his jaw line with his thumb, slowly. It was such a bold touch, for someone who had only dared to kiss him once.

"It's a nice effect," Luciano said, suddenly letting go, "Of course, it won't help you with the sun, but it's still beautiful. Anyway."

And just like that, he pushed his hands inside Martín's coat, pressing against his chest.

"What are you doing?" Martín tried to squirm away, but, of course, he could barely move, "What the fuck do you think you're-"

"I need to see if you don't have weapons with you, don't I? Now be quiet, it won't take long."

"No- your men did that already, and you know I don't-"

"I don't know anything. What if they missed something? I can't take the risk."

"You just want to want to-"

"Be careful," Luciano said, his smile sharpening, "Be very careful, Martín."

"-touch me," Martín finished, but now it was just a furious whisper that no one heard, and it wasn't even the word he wanted to have used, and Luciano let it slide:

"You'd think that, yes."

Martín considered kicking him. He could do it. And he could really hurt him, doing it.

So, he probably wouldn't live to see the aftermath. But he _could_ do it. If he wanted to. He tried to imagine Luciano's surprise if he did it, and-

"Are you sure you're comfortable?" the bastard said, "Because you're sweating like a pig."

-and he deserved it. Martín turned away. He shouldn't let it bother him, because that was obviously why Luciano had said it, and also because it wasn't his fault, they were here and there was no wind, nothing, at all, and the sun was high up and what was he supposed to do? Also, Luciano was pressing him a little harder than he had to. Now his hands were down his waist and Martín wanted to remind him that Luciano wasn't the one tied to a fucking mast here, so could he please be a little more careful with that?

"You can take it," Luciano said, as if he had heard his thoughts, "You were always very flexible."

"Not that you'd know that," Martín mumbled.

"Come on, I can tell. I was afraid they would break your arms, but there you are, good as ever."

That wasn't what he had meant, but Luciano had a point. Of course, Luciano would break his arms himself, pulling him like that, and right now it was almost like he was trying to hug him, so close that Martín could bite his neck, or something like that, and then Luciano let go of his waist and slid his hands down his hips.

Some of his men were looking – instead of working so they could move already and get some wind and _go_ somewhere – and someone said something, and then Luciano turned to them and answered and they laughed.

Martín was sure he was blushing. They wouldn't be able to tell, because the sun had made his skin as red as it could be, but he knew it, and now he didn't know where to look at and couldn't bring himself to face them.

And then he could, the furious energy came from nowhere, but he wouldn't shame himself, he glared at everyone as hard as he could as Luciano went down on one knew to feel up his legs. His face got warmer and warmed and he suddenly noticed he was biting his lip when Luciano reached his thighs and looked up, a mischievous smile on his lips:

"Can you open your legs for me?"

The snickering proved that yes, at least some of them could understand Spanish, and it made Martín blush harder, and now he didn't know what to do, he couldn't, he just couldn't do that but if he didn't-

Luciano was taking it slowly. He pressed his hand between Martín's legs, and it felt more like he was massaging his thighs than actually looking for weapons, and- that wasn't completely bad, of course, and Martín couldn't decide if Luciano was doing it on purpose –of course he was, but why, he couldn't figure out if he wanted to humiliate him and –he _did_, but-

Luciano did the same to his other leg. Martín tried to think of something else, even the sun was better, because Luciano was way too close to his crotch and Martín's head was full of dumb ideas, like how beautiful Luciano's mouth was and how his lush lips would look good around his-

"Aren't you glad you don't like this?" Luciano said, snapping Martín out of it, "Otherwise it would be really awkward."

No one had heard it. Martín was sure of it, because Luciano's voice was almost a whisper and he wouldn't have said that to everyone and even if he had they wouldn't understand because they didn't _know_, but Martín's face still burned, and now he could taste blood on his lip from biting it so hard. He took a deep breath again, but everything felt so warm, both the air and the clothes and everything inside him, that breathing was almost impossible.

"Left foot, please."

Martín looked down. Luciano was holding his ankle, and Martín was too overwhelmed to protest, or to do anything except letting him raise his leg, placing Martín's foot on his knee, and then watch as Luciano worked on the buckles of his boot and pulled it off. He did the same with the right one, and got up.

The wooden floor felt wrong, strange under his feet, and now Luciano seemed taller, not enough to reach him but close, and it felt like he had gained some sort of unfair advantage.

"Oh well, nothing there," he said, loudly, and then translated that to a much more malicious version, judging by the laughter and they had to be doing that on purpose too, how could this bunch of clowns laugh so much?

"Aren't you forgetting anything?" Martín said. It didn't sound strong or impressive or anything, it sounded like... well, like someone trying hard to sound strong. Martín didn't like it. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What now, are you stealing my boots too?"

"Ask me to put them on, and I will."

Oh.

Technically, it didn't matter much. Unless the floor had splinters, he surely had bigger problems to worry about. And maybe it would be better because a few minutes ago he was wishing he could get rid of the coat and the cravat too, but still, standing barefoot before him – except for the stockings, but that didn't count – somehow felt almost more humiliating than anything else.

Almost.

"Take them with you," he said, "'About time you had a pair that you didn't make yourself."

Luciano's smile vanished. For a second Martín thought he would hit him again, but then Luciano smiled again:

"Thank you, I'll remember that."

He picked up the boots, and Martín half expected him to throw it at the sea, but Luciano was too clever for that. He just took them with him.

Martín didn't know what to think. It was like something had changed, something important, but he couldn't focus on anything, the planks underneath his feet and the lingering pressure of Luciano's hands between his legs and the light sting on his lip and the faint taste of blood and the heat, always the heat, like a blanket all around him.

He closed his eyes. He could hear Luciano's voice somewhere close, giving orders again, and how come he could find his voice in the middle of so many others?

It had been like that. Martín used to say it had something to do with the terrible accent he couldn't get rid of, but that was because he had to say something, and it was an easy excuse – and a surefire way to make Luciano shut up, because he hated when people mentioned it. The truth was that Martín didn't know why it happened, it just did.

He could always find him.

It had been hard, back then, because he hadn't _wanted_ to. Luciano wasn't- well, wasn't someone he wanted to associate with. Everyone knew that, even if they didn't say it. To his face, anyway.

Now Martín wished he had. But back then Luciano hadn't tied him to a mast yet, so back then there was a point in trying not to hurt his feelings, and Martín had ended up associating with him anyway, a little against his will and certainly against his better judgment.

His legs were starting to hurt.

He wished he hadn't noticed it, because now he couldn't forget it. He wished he could sit – and he_could_, he had just enough leeway to do that, but that would mean admitting he couldn't stand. They would notice it. And laugh. Luciano would look at him and know and smile and he couldn't take that.

Luciano always looked like he was laughing. Ever since the first day. Martín had told him to stop, many times, because it always felt like Luciano was mocking him, and Luciano didn't seem to understand what he was supposed to stop doing.

And he always said he _was_ mocking him so it was alright.

Someone poked his chest. Martín opened his eyes, half expecting to see those bright dark eyes, but it was someone else, who pressed a canteen against his lips.

Martín tried to turn his face away, but then the man said something and he heard Luciano again:

"Drink it. I know you're thirsty."

"I'm not-"

"Drink or he'll make you drink."

Martín scowled.

"Look, that's kind of you, but don't worry about me, I'm fine."

Luciano went back to Portuguese. The man said something back, and it looked like he was complaining, probably resisting sharing whatever that was. But Luciano just laughed and looked away and the man shrugged.

He put his hand between Martín's head and the mast, holding his hair, and pressed the canteen against his lips a little more forcefully and Martín didn't wait to see what he was planning to do, he just opened his mouth. No point in being stupid.

And anyway Luciano wasn't looking anymore.

It was water, with rum mixed in it, and it was so good, like having his body being cooled from the inside and he could have drank like that forever, and it almost didn't matter that it felt like being fed like a baby.

The man pulled the canteen away, and let go of his hair. And waited. Martín wasn't sure what for, and then Luciano looked at him again, from the other side of the ship:

"You should say thank you."

Martín pressed his lip for a moment, and then decided that the only way out was to do it as fast as he could:

"Of course, where are my manners? _Thank_ you."

The man patted his head, and Martín tried to ignore it, there, it was over, he didn't have to think about it ever again. He could almost feel Luciano's eyes on him, and he looked up to face him.

Luciano looked- well, maybe a little impressed.

Martín looked away. But that made him feel just a tiny bit better.


End file.
